Maggie holds the Zippo in her palm. It belonged to Red before he left for ‘Nam. Before the jungle swallowed him whole.
She flicks it open. The flame dances like it knows something she doesn’t.
Red came back, but not really. He sits on her couch most nights, watching static on the TV, drinking like he’s still trying to drown something that won’t sink.
She pockets the lighter and walks outside. It’s late, but the night air doesn’t ask questions.
She lights a cigarette and lets the past burn slow.
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